Stalking Grandma
Click, step, click, step, click, step. He had watched the old woman for two weeks now, and it was always the same routine. He was watching her now from behind a parked car about twenty-five yards away. She was headed toward him, very slowly. Click, step, click, step, click, step. He didn’t think it would be possible for someone to move more slowly than the old woman. She was old enough to be someone’s grandmother, perhaps great-grandmother. She plodded along the five-block route to her apartment. He was filled with anticipation—tonight he would kill again. It wasn’t really the killing itself that was so rewarding, although it was intoxicating. He relished the power he had over his victims. Seeing the fear in their eyes when they realized he had no interest in their money or jewelry. Listening to them beg for mercy—their pathetic, mundane lives in his hands. He felt himself becoming aroused just thinking about it. Click step, click, step, click, step. The old woman was passing his hiding place. He crawled around to the opposite side of the car so he would remain hidden from view. This was the closest he had been to her so far. He saw that she was even older and frailer than he had first realized. She moved slowly along the deserted sidewalk. First her walker would move forward, then her feet. The walker, then the feet—one step at a time. Click, step, click, step, click, step. The sound slowly faded as she moved away from him. Soon she would be approaching the alley between her apartment house and the neighboring building—the perfect place for an ambush. He pulled on his gloves—wouldn’t want any fingerprints. Took the knife out of his coat, recently oiled and polished, and checked its edge for sharpness. He had killed six women so far, gradually learning the best way to prolong the moment of death, to torment them, as he gained experience. He had never been caught, but that didn’t really surprise him, because he took every possible precaution. He studied his potential victim for days, sometimes weeks, until he fully understood their routine. People never seemed to realize how predictable their lives were—one or two weeks of observation is all it took to know when and how to strike. Then came the fun. He had taken the first two women back to his home. That gave him the opportunity to restrain them and make use of his "tools"—and he did have quite an assortment of equipment. It was amazing how much mutilation and abuse the human body could withstand before ceasing to function. He had watched the videotapes of those evenings over and over. Months later he had realized his arrogance. He burned the tapes and never brought anyone home again. He needed to be as careful as possible if he didn’t want to get caught. Being a police detective, he knew how clever the authorities could be. Click, step, click, step, click, step. The sound was slowly fading as night fell. He headed toward the back of the building so he would be ready for her when she passed the alley. His heart was pounding in anticipation. He was on duty in two hours—he might even be called to investigate the murder of the old lady, if her body was found early enough. That made him chuckle. Four nights a week she would walk the five blocks to her neighbor’s building, between five-thirty and six. Then, after they had eaten together, she would walk home, always alone, between seven-thirty and eight. He would be willing to bet that the neighbor would be calling her shortly to make sure she had arrived home safely. That meant that his time might be somewhat limited. Dusk was just becoming night, but he figured that the old woman was usually home before dark—only the early sunset of November accounted for her being out in the evening’s blackness. She probably had told her friend not to worry—it’s only a few blocks. Beating her to the alley’s entrance hadn’t been difficult, and he was now in position. He could hear her coming closer. Click, step, click, step, click, step. He jumped out from behind a pile of old crates as she passed by, grabbed her, and covered her mouth before she could let out a scream. He then dragged her into the alley, leaving her walker standing alone on the sidewalk. He brought her to the middle of the alley, pushing her between two garbage dumpsters, where she fell to a sitting position on the ground. Only the faint light from the rising moon provided some minimal illumination. "If you scream, or make any noise, I’ll kill you," he said. "What do you want?" the old woman asked. "All in good time," he said, smiling, as he pulled the gleaming, eight-inch hunting knife from his pocket. "Please don’t hurt me. I’ll do anything you ask." "First, I think we need to get to know each other a little better. What’s your name?" "Lily," she replied. "Well, Lily," he said, his sadistic grin growing wider, "I haven’t quite decided what I’m going to do with you yet. Perhaps I’ll rape you—that might be fun. I’ll bet you haven’t had sex in quite some time. Or maybe I’ll use my friend here to cut you into pieces, a little at a time. Maybe just cut off a finger or toe at first. See how far we can go before you lose consciousness." He savored the power he had over her. Lily’s eyes were wide with terror. For a moment he was afraid her heart might stop before he could even get started. "Please don’t hurt me, please, I’ll do anything," she begged. He was only about six feet away and towered over her tiny, frail form. She looked as though she could be blown away by a strong gust of wind. Maybe I’ll just snap her scrawny neck with my bare hands, he thought. The old woman was whimpering now. She was just as pitiful as the rest of them, and her begging aroused him further. "I’ve got money," she said reaching into her coat pocket, "Here, you can have it all. I’ve got more at home, too." As her hand came out of her pocket, he laughed aloud at her. Why did they all think money would make a difference? Her hand wasn’t holding money. Before he could even realize what was happening, Lily pointed the petite thirty-eight-caliber revolver at him and fired. The hollow-point bullet ripped through his abdomen, shattering his vertebrae. He fell to the ground, unable to move from the waist down. "Shit! I’m shot!" he screamed in surprise. "You bitch! You shot me! I can’t move my legs!" Lily slowly pulled herself to her feet and walked a few steps closer to him, holding on to the dumpster for support. She raised the gun, pointing it directly at his chest. "Fuck you, asshole," she said as she pulled the trigger. As he lay on the ground alone in the alley, paralyzed, his life draining from him, he could hear her slowly fading away into the distance. Click, step, click, step, click, step. Jeffrey A. Katt lives with his wife in Southeastern Wisconsin. In his limited free time he enjoys a glass of fine vintage port, listening to classical or jazz music, cultivating native Wisconsin wildflowers, and writing articles, fiction, and poetry. He began writing in 1999, and has been (or soon will be) published in Black Petals, Redsine, The Door to Worlds Imagined, Anotherealm, Mindmares, The Inditer, Blood Coven, In Buddha's Temple, Millenium Science Fiction & Fantasy, Topsite, At The Brink of Madness, Zombie Horrors!, Pablo Lennis, Bloody Muse, The Roswell Literary Review, Quicker, and Pillow Screams, among others. He hopes to begin a novel near the turn of the century. April 2000 HofP |